Requiem for the Monsignor
by Mainecoon
Summary: The famous detective Basil of Baker Street is taught a lesson on life by a young French gypsy.


Requiem for the Monsignor  
  
[In memory of the passing of Monsignor James Montgomery, for whom I feel nothing.]  
  
Grey clouds hovered in the sky, threatening to strike at the city with their cold rain though they looked soft enough to sleep upon forever in an endlessly safe embrace. After days of being cooped up inside, Basil had allowed Dawson to drag him out on a few small errands. He was quiet and brooding for most of the morning, but, as is usual for him in his odd ways, the oppressive weather seemed to cheer him somehow.   
  
On the way to the post office, their path took them past a cemetery. As they approached, their casual steps were slowed by the spectacle of a large crowd of mourners parading through the graves and mulling about the gate. All were dressed in the finest black clothing they owned. Most of the ladies wore veils over their faces and wept.   
  
Basil's curiosity was perked. He stood watching the strange procession for a few moments, as if debating whether or not to follow. He would, after all, blend in well enough in the shabby gray suit he wore.   
  
His hesitation was dispelled a moment later at the sight of a vaguely familiar face. "Go on ahead, Dawson," he whispered. "I'll meet you back at Baker Street."  
  
Dawson sighed. The moment they had spotted the group, he knew it was inevitable that Basil would soon be among them. "Very well," he answered, and went on his way. Unlike his eccentric companion, the doctor was not eager to involve himself so readily in these morbid doings.   
  
Basil hurried ahead, pushing and jostling himself through the thick crowd. Soon he found a place walking beside the familiar mouse.   
  
"Raphaelle?" he asked quietly, not completely certain of the face behind the veil. The young mouse glanced at him.  
  
"Good day, Basil," she replied, lifting her veil to look at him. "How do you do?" Her accented voice betrayed no solution to the riddle of the multitude of black-laced figures.  
Basil kept his voice low as they walked. "I say, Raphaelle, what on earth's going on?"  
  
"Oh, don't you know?" Her tone registered some slight surprise. "The Monsignor has passed away."  
  
"What? Which one?"  
  
"Monsignor Montgomery, head of the Annunciation parish."   
  
Basil was puzzled by the absence of emotion, a thing which usually showed through so musically in the young gypsy's words. "Come with me," he pleaded.  
  
"Not now. We must pay our respects at the grave before it is closed. See?" She held up a bouquet of dark violet flowers. "Now quiet. We may talk later."  
  
Basil walked silently among the solemn group. Raphaelle hid her eyes behind the black lace once more. When they stood at the side of the open grave, she handed him a flower from her bouquet to throw in. Together they whispered a prayer in French, then moved on.  
  
Raphaelle led the detective to a secluded area in the older part of the cemetery. There she removed her hat and undid the black ribbon from her tail. "There," she said, throwing them aside as if they were unwanted memories. "Now, what did you wish to say to me?"  
  
Basil looked back at the mourners, who still swarmed around the grave like angry bees. He frowned to show his confusion. "Raphaelle, what on earth is going on here?"  
  
"I told you already," the girl answered with a sly smirk. "Or has the great detective forgotten already?"  
  
"I haven't forgotten what you told me, my dear, but I don't understand… Why such ceremony? Why so extravagant a display?"  
  
"I see you did not know the Monsignor," Raphaelle observed. "He was a very powerful man, and very wise about the teachings of the Church." She sat down on a cracked stone whose markings had been worn off for too many years to count.  
  
"But not well-liked?"   
  
"I would not say that," Raphaelle answered with a tilt of her head. "No, I would not say that at all."  
  
Basil again turned his eyes to the heaving throng. "Such flaunting of grief, yet none of it, I think, is real."  
  
"You think very rightly, monsieur detective."   
  
He looked at her, questioning with his eyes rather than his tongue. A note of ringing laughter sounded in Raphaelle's response. "The Monsignor was powerful and wise, but he was also corrupt. Any real grief you see here today is grief for the loss of an income, not a spiritual leader."  
  
Basil considered the statement. He turned from her and leaned against a pillar that stood as the last reminder of a crumbled monument. "It seems sad," he said at last, "that he could be as corrupt as you claim him to be and yet remain a leader of the people."  
  
"He had his good sides, too," Raphaelle said from behind him. "Everybody has some good parts and bad. He led the mass with great devotion, though much of it was devotion that was given to the wrong deity. He spoke in ways that stirred the congregation to terror and tears. He could inspire such pity and rage against sinners as is rarely seen in a small church."  
  
"You knew him," Basil said, looking at her again. "Do you feel nothing for this man's death?"  
  
The gypsy girl rose from her seat and went to stand beside him. They kept their vigil over the masqueraded funeral for several minutes before she spoke again.  
  
"I felt nothing." She sighed sadly. "Nothing at all. The Monsignor is dead. He was cruel to me and to my brother, but for that I can forgive him. He refused to understand so much, and he knew so little about us… I should perhaps feel pity, perhaps anger, perhaps sorrow. He has been good to us as well. And yet… I feel nothing. Not even in the bottom of my heart do I have a drop of feeling for him."   
  
Tearing his eyes from the fools' parade, Basil saw that there were tears on her gray cheeks. "Then… why do you weep?" he questioned gently.  
  
Raphaelle took his hand in hers. "I weep, monsieur, because I feel nothing. Because I know that not one of this mad charade feels anything for the dead Monsignor. And all men deserve at least one earnest prayer for their soul, no matter how dark or troubled it was. Do they not?"  
  
Basil turned his head to avoid meeting her gaze. A mist of shame covered him, for he realized that he, too, had bowed his head and prayed in counterfeit sorrow.  
  
"Were there but a remedy for death," Raphaelle mused, "perhaps we might come back and see our lives through newborn eyes, and live them so much the better for it."   
  
Her remark was met only with silence as the detective seemed to take a sudden intense interest in the back of his eyelids, and gripped the pillar with a tense hand. He felt the girl's feathery touch upon his shoulder.   
  
"It is not a thing for you to be ashamed of, mon amie." She laid her hands on his chin and held him until his eyes at last fluttered open to brush her tear-dampened lashes with their frightened stare. She smiled reassuringly. "You are a good mouse, monsieur detective. A very good mouse. But you are still only a mouse. Do not believe that the wrath of the ages sits upon you alone. If it is with you at all, the vengeance it wishes is fleeting and may be already taken. Yours is a hard life. All of us lead hard lives. All of us need deception, or we would not survive in this, the age of pretended beauty."  
  
"You speak so grandly," Basil whispered. His voice shook as he said it. He smiled as a tear rolled down his cheek. "I'm afraid, my dear, that I am unused to being so humbled by one so young."  
  
"That is not your shame," the gypsy said. "And I am older than you think. None can remain a child who travel the roads in search of home. My people have no children. They have only very young lost sheep."  
  
"I see…" Basil wiped the tear away with the back of his hand. "We are all wanderers, then. Lost sheep, as you say it."  
  
Raphaelle nodded. "We are, monsieur. But we are blessed, despite our lies and mocked funerals, because we may be a flock of lost sheep rather than a lone nomad, if we so choose that to be our path. You and I are alone, but we walk together because of that. It is the same for all the outcasts in this world."  
  
"And the Monsignor…?" Basil was again watching the now-thinning crowd through hazy eyes.   
  
"He is gone now. He was one of the flock of black sheep wear white wool. The flock is faithful to their fallen companion, but when he is buried they will speak no more kindly of him than they would of any other who was not really one of them. Come. Let us leave this place. Soon the rain will come. For good or bad, it always comes." She looked up at the sky for a moment as she spoke.  
  
They walked back through the crooked lines of graves together. Raphaelle recovered her veil and ribbons from where they had fallen, but she did not put them back on. When they stepped back out onto the street, Basil asked her one more thing before they parted to go their separate ways.  
  
"Raphaelle, why were you there if you were not one of the… black sheep who wear white wool?"  
  
"Why, for the same reason you were there with me, monsieur detective. Even the white sheep stray sometimes."  
  
With that, she turned towards the Thames, where her brother and other gypsies were camped in a barn belonging to a friendly innkeeper in exchange for entertainment.   
  
Basil watched her until she disappeared around a corner. Then he went his own way, trudging slowly with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. When he reached the door to his own private haven, it began to rain.   
  
…end…  



End file.
